The Prophecy Spoken

[Gemini 1639]

 

 

 

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Usamea found herself in a typical evening within the graceful city of Vallagne. The elven lady moved amidst the flowing currents of the people, tending to her own affairs and obligations.

Among the bustling crowd, a human figure emerged—a simple, weather-worn man who had the look of one in need. His plea was humble and earnest, an appeal for any assistance she could offer. He was not fussy—food, coin, or any form of aid would do.

Usamea, moved by his plea, adhered to the principle that guided her kin: to offer aid to the needy was to uplift all. She rummaged through her belongings, her hands finding packets of food since she lacked any coins at the moment. Offering the sustenance to the man, she watched as his face lit up with relief and gratitude.

 

His thanks were followed by an offer of repayment, a promise made out of earnest goodwill. But Usamea, guided by the wisdom of her people, knew that acts of kindness were not a transaction. She gently declined, instead encouraging him to extend his own hand to others in need when the opportunity arose.

 

As it happened, this humble beggar was far more than he seemed. The prophet, touched by the generosity of the silver-haired lady, felt compelled to repay her in his own way. And so, he gifted her a vision that would prove far more valuable than any coin or feast. It was a glimpse into what lay ahead and what happened before, a prophecy woven into the fabric of the future, filled with cryptic symbols and dire warnings.

 

 

 

Engulfed in the tendrils of a vision, Usamea fell into a chasm of darkness, a yawning abyss that stretched beyond sight. A sea of black swelled beneath her, its ebon waves lapping her form as she surrendered to the relentless current. Then, a beacon erupted from the abyss, pulling her up into a cascade of colors and realities that twisted her senses.

 

When the vertigo subsided, she found herself standing in a grand throne room, a masterpiece sculpted from gold and embraced by nature's green fingers. The echoes of a name rang in the air - "Larihei!" Usamea blinked, disoriented, as a male mali'ame stormed in, calling out to her, or rather, Larihei. In that instant, she understood. She was but a passenger, viewing this world through Larihei's eyes.

“Ito Aeloran” the elf's voice bounced off the golden walls, laden with urgency. The room seemed to breathe, its grandeur morphing into a scene of blood-soaked chaos. A battle unfurled before her, the battlefield a macabre dance between infernal horrors and brave elven warriors. Each elf felled was answered by a crumbling undead, their ashes blowing away in the wind. Yet, the horrors seemed endless.

 

Then the heavens split open, and a figure descended - a form so vile that even the air seemed to recoil. Recognition twisted in her gut. This was Iblees, the Betrayer. The air vibrated with his stolen tongues, each word a dagger thrust into her mind. His betrayal culminated in a single act; he cast a bolt of dark miasma that struck her and the warrior beside her. She could almost feel her veins turn to ice as the curse of Iblees took hold.

 

In a moment, the scene changed. Time spun its wheel, revealing the growth of the elven kin - mali’aheral, mali’ame, mali’ker. She saw their cities rise, a testament to their perseverance and ambition, and watched them evolve, always from a vantage point above.

 

The final scene was a departure from the rest.

 

Usamea found herself in a cavern lit by an eerie glow. Three figures in robes stood before a tear in reality, the room pulsing with voidal magic. From the tear, ghostly mists seeped into the air, their spectral whispers coiling around her like serpents. An instinctual dread settled in her heart: something about this was profoundly wrong.

As the vision released its grip, Usamea was left with more than just a sense of dread. She bore the weight of a prophecy, a call to action. 

 

 

Her path was now clear.